Brown Eyes
by ArwenJaneLilyLyra
Summary: Eames contemplates the colour of brown eyes, and one particular person who is more interesting than most. Not slash, but can be interpreted as such if you like the pairing. Arthur - Eames.


**A/N In all honesty, I have brown eyes and do not particularly find them that interesting or brilliant. In my own opinion green are the most interesting, but as Joseph Gordon Levitt has brown eyes in the film, brown eyes it is. This _can_ be read as a slash story if you so want it, but it is written in harmless honesty, looking into why Eames seems to take such delight in harassing Arthur. **

**I guess this is dedicated to _serum patfey_ - sorry it isn't slash, but at least it's Arthur and Eames ;)**

Brown Eyes

Eames had always liked brown eyes best. As a child he remembered faintly the sight of a beautiful woman tucking him into bed at night, doe eyes darker than chocolate and smile gentle and vulnerable as a child's. He thought it was his mother, but his father so rarely spoke of her that he couldn't be sure. It was the only memory he had of a woman in his life, and he couldn't even be sure of who it was.

Eames himself had inherited his father's icy blue gaze that, while said to be attractive, simply wasn't the melting, smouldering fires he could have achieved with brown eyes. As a result, the first thing he noticed about a person was the colour of their eyes, searching, always searching, for the right shade.

The first time he met Dominic Cobb, the first thing he noticed was the dark tones of his eyes, but still it wasn't quite right. His look was too cold and guarded, almost fearful, only softening when Mal was close, and never softening once she was gone. Then there was that young woman he met in a bar, with the infectious laugh and shapely legs, but again she wasn't quite right. Her eyes were so light a brown they were practically hazel; no, that would never do.

But there was one person that had brown eyes; the brown eyes he was looking for. He wasn't even looking specifically, more or less routinely checking the young man's eyes as he was introduced. He had assumed he would be another nameless point man, no use getting fully acquainted. But then he had met the gaze of Dom's associate, who apparently even looked up to Dom as some sort of mentor. What was his name again? Arthur?

Arthur. Though the shade of brown was warm and so perfect he felt his knees weaken at a single glance – it was just so familiar to his memories – there was a haze of mistrust and analytical calculating going on at all times. It seemed this Arthur was very much like Eames himself. He never fully left his job behind. Everywhere he went, Eames still memorised every face, analysed every motion and habit and dialect of every person in a room. The way Arthur's attention never seemed to rest on one detail for more than a few seconds was his only give away of his profession. It was clear that in a matter of minutes, he had logged every crack and splinter of the room into the metaphorical diary locked inside his head. He could have drawn a blueprint from memory after five minutes of observation. What clever brown eyes they were.

But suave Eames would never let his mannerisms slip; he introduced himself with his signature smirk, including the half twitched wink he saved only for those he intended to keep close to him – excluding Mal of course, Dom would have taken him straight into the dream world and bled him to death several times over for such treachery – and allowed the casual use of _darling_ to slip itself onto the end of his sentence. He enjoyed the intrigued and slightly wary way the intelligence in Arthur's brown eyes perceived the name _darling_, clearly trying to work out a motive, a reason; whether it was a move or an act or just the way Eames was. If Eames was honest with himself, he'd have admitted a little of each.

He wondered vaguely why Dom had never introduced this Arthur with his mystical brown eyes to him before.

It soon became clear.

The three piece suit with pinching shoes and correctly fastened tie was one thing, but soon Arthur revealed himself to be organised down to his fingernails. Nothing out of place, everything neatly in order - the exact pinnacle of everything Eames found most annoying; Eames felt a strong urge to creep up behind the man and ruffle his perfectly gelled hair just to get rid of the air of perfection Arthur seemed to carry with total ease, as if he had been born that way. But surely no-one could have been born so in control, so unreadable, so well poised.

And the more and more Eames felt irritated by the man, the more and more he tried to read him. He was determined to break through the mould Arthur had created for himself; the mould that Dom seemed to be accustomed to, the mould that even little James and Philippa seemed to know so well as they jabbered away for the limited time they had on the phone to _Uncle Arthur_. Not quite as good a ring as _darling_, Eames couldn't help but think, but sweet enough in itself.

It wasn't long before they finally had to complete a job together, and Eames was willing to admit to himself – and only himself – that he was looking forward to it very much indeed. He wondered if Arthur ever panicked; in a twisted way he almost hoped he would do, just to have one over the point man.

But in the end, Eames could only stand in awe. Brown eyes unaffected, still calculating all the while, as everything around them crumbled to nothing. In the few seconds it took Arthur to decide how much time he had left, what to do, where to go and how to keep everyone safe, Eames only just managed to regain his normal heart rate and steady his breathing. Dom was writhing on the floor, half crushed by the collapsed building and though he was yet to know Dom half as long as Arthur has known him, Eames felt admiring horror as coolly the younger man took aim and relieved his mentor of his agony, landing one well placed bullet in his head. Eames' heart stuttered at the unconcerned way in which Arthur shot his oldest friend, turning with a keen gaze to him to check he was still uninjured. He said nothing, but gave a small nod and possibly the faintest hint of a potential smile of encouragement.

In the short amount of time it took for Arthur to set things in order and get everyone the hell out of there, Eames had said nothing but a few choice curse words and one sigh of surprise at the younger man's skill. Eames wasn't there when Dom removed the architect from his role in the team, having failed them at the crucial moment and nearly letting them fall to ruin; he was in the back, with Arthur. He hadn't managed to talk to him properly since they first met, so he nonchalantly complimented the man, inadvertently adding on a smooth _darling_ as he did so. Arthur thanked him, the look of irritation at the pet name breaking through his clear cutting stare for a moment, creasing his forehead briefly.

His tone was final as he told Eames he had been taught by the best, and that the best was what Dom needed. It ended the conversation, proving both his discomfort around those he doesn't not know too well, and his seemingly unfounded dislike of the forger.

He never did seem to grow used to the forger's company. When reunited after parting ways for two years, his voice was just as distant, his lips firmly set in a not-quite-grimace and his forehead neatly puckered. But his eyes were still the same: brown as the dark chocolate found only in the expensive little boutique _confiseries _situated in old French villages, undiscovered by the big name brands; still lacking the emotion of most, the colour of pure warmth and the expression of pure calm.

Yes, brown eyes were by far the most interesting colour of eyes.

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**Reviews welcome :)**


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